


But this time, out of rhythm

by newamsterdam



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Nerd Denmark, Punk Norway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-20 20:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2441168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mathias wants to make his way through school, keep his roommate from being arrested for drug possession, and maybe get laid along the way. No one's really sure what Lukas wants, but Mathias intends to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

i. 

He first sees Lukas on a chilly day in October, walking between classes and balancing a stack of books and a messenger bag. He doesn’t have enough balance to even check his watch, but he can tell he’s late for class based on the niggling feeling at the base of his skull—he _always_ knows when he’s late. 

Mathias breaks into a run, wishing not for the first time that NYU had an enclosed campus instead of discreet buildings littered around an already too-cluttered city. He changes course at the last minute and decides to cut through Washington Square Park, loafers skidding against the sidewalk as he turns. 

The trees are just beginning to shift in color, and the midday sun runs through the yellow-orange-red leaves and dyes the footpaths different colors. Any other day, Mathias would whip out his phone and take pictures—tree placement, path design, how to get the sun through the too-tall buildings to achieve the same effect—but now he’s _really_ late and doesn’t have time for it. 

He makes it to the fountain and cheers internally—just through the arch and down the street, and he’ll be where he needs to be—but then stops abruptly. It isn’t red leaves and speckled sunlight that catches his eye, this time; rather, it’s the group of people sitting around one of the benches, artfully arranged.

There’re six of them—an Asian boy in a hound’s-tooth jacket with leather sleeves, the tips of his dark hair dyed a livid red; a darker-skinned girl in a cotton t-shirt that drapes down over her knees, hiding half of her striped leggings; a blonde with green eyes and too-thick eyebrows, wearing a shirt printed with “The Smiths” under a worn jacket; another girl who could be the sister of the first boy, her long hair braided and coiled in haphazard patterns, the ruffles of her skirt at odds with the sharp heels of her black boots; a slight boy with silvery hair and a placid expression, his button-down crinkled and his tie too skinny—and then, the last. 

He’s the only one actually on the bench, instead of around it. He lounges on his back, looking up at the too-bright sun as his white-blonde hair fans around his face. His legs are impossibly long and thin, laid out across the bench in tight, tight black pants. There’s a scarf knotted across his neck, a silvery decoration glinting in his hair. 

The six of them might be talking, might be smoking, might be listening to music—but Mathias is transfixed by the boy on the bench and his too-long legs, his barely-there expression when his head turns to the side. His eyes—blue, bright, impenetrable—meet Mathias’ for a moment, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s staring, he’s been staring now for several long moments.

 _And_ , he’s more than late. 

Breaking eye contact and turning a furious shade of red, Mathias hoists his bag back onto his shoulder and runs. 

 

ii.

He gets back to his apartment building at six o’clock that evening, riding the elevator while still juggling too many books. It’s only when he’s inside the door, tossing his bag and books down by the entryway, that he’s able to think back over his afternoon. Immediately, he’s struck by inspiration. 

“Stijn!” he calls out, kicking off his loafers and running through the apartment in his socks, “Stijn, where the hell are you—!” 

His roommate answers with some sort of affirmative grunt from the kitchen, and so Mathias heads there with a brilliant smile. It doesn’t surprise him to find Stijn with his head and shoulders in the oven, surrounded by cleaning supplies that smell like citrus. 

“What are you doing?” Mathias asks, though he probably already knows. “We have never even turned that thing on, there’s no way it can be dirty.” 

Stijn grumbles something and then shifts, crawling back out of the oven and offering Mathias a flat look. He’s a good-looking guy, Mathias’ roommate—just a little taller than Mathias himself, with flaxen hair that defies gravity thanks to the liberal application of hair gel in the morning. (Mathias can respect that, since he partakes in the ritual as well, though he favors horizontal angels more than vertical.) 

“I’m cleaning,” Stijn mumbles, as if that wasn’t obvious. 

“Already?” Mathias wheedles. “It’s not even midterms, yet, if you’re already stressed you’ve gotta get a handle on it, because otherwise I’m finding somewhere else to live for the next five months so you don’t disinfect me in my sleep once Palmolive and Mr. Clean stop doin’ it for you.” 

Stijn rolls his eyes, which he tends to do a lot, especially around Mathias. “’m not stressed,” he says, as though Mathias might actually believe him. 

“Yeah, yeah,” his roommate says, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll talk about your neuroses later. Or better yet, just call Erzsébet’s boyfriend, he’s a psych major, isn’t he?” 

“Did you have a point?” Stijn’s turning away, now, to replace the cleaning supplies under the sink. 

“Oh, yeah! So I was heading to class today and I saw this guy—well, this group of people, really, but mostly this one guy. And they looked maybe like the kind of guys you sell to, maybe?” 

“‘Sell to’?” Stijn asks, back turned and tone purposefully flat. 

“You know,” Mathias groans. “With the envelopes of cash and the drugs and whatever. You can’t think I’m that stupid, that I haven’t noticed you’re growing weed on the balcony.” 

Stijn turns back around lifts both his brows carefully. “America has stupid laws,” he says finally. 

“Sure, sure, whatever,” Mathias says. “Anyway, there were five, six of them? Two girls and four guys. One of them had really bushy eyebrows, and two of them might have been brother and sister? And this one guy—god, you should’ve seen him, Stijn, he had these eyes, and this hair, and these legs…” 

He trails off, sighing slightly, lost in his daydreams. He’s never had much time or inclination for romance, but he’s quickly and quietly decided to make an exception. If only to know what those legs would feel like wrapped around his waist. 

“You’re an idiot,” Stijn says after a moment, flicking Mathias in the forehead. Mathias pouts, jumps back. 

“That’s not nice, Stijn,” he says. 

“Mm.” The reply is noncommittal as Stijn ever is. “Does that mean you don’t want to go to Arthur’s party with me?”

“Wait, wait? Who’s Arthur?” 

 

iii. 

Arthur, as it turns out, is a friend of Stijn’s from his Medieval Poetry seminar. (Mathias has never really understood his roommate’s penchant for poetry, a Literature in Translation minor tacked onto his Economics and Business Studies. He supposes it has something to do with the vast quantity of weed Stijn smokes.) 

Stijn’s never been much of a talker, but from him Mathias learns the following—Arthur is an international student, like the two of them, from London. He plays guitar in a punk band and majors in Medieval and Renaissance Studies. He rents a cheap flat two blocks down, and throws raging parties on Saturday nights after his band plays at a local Irish pub. 

None of that really matters much to Mathias, but Arthur also happens to be the eyebrowed boy from earlier. Which means that Pale, Icy and Leggy must be a friend of his. Which means that he probably attends Arthur’s parties. 

Which means that Mathias has to go to the next one, obviously. 

 

iv. 

“I shouldn’t have let you dress me,” Mathias says as he walks with Stijn through the doorway, tugging awkwardly at the stiff collar of his crimson button-down. 

Stijn shrugs. “You would’ve worn a sweater-vest.” He’d stood in front of Mathias’ closet and cast stern judgment on all he saw, casting aside pairs and pairs of slacks and corduroys. Eventually he’d given up and tossed a pair of his own tight black jeans at Mathias’ head. 

“I wouldn’t have!” Mathias feels compelled to defend himself. Though he doesn’t really see anything wrong with his nice slacks, and collared shirts, and baggy sweaters. Or his sweater-vests. They’re cozy. 

Stijn rolls his eyes (again). “Look, are you trying to get laid here, or not?” 

Mathias blushes, runs a hand through his hair. So, yes, the answer to that question is obvious enough. But he doesn’t even know the guy’s name yet, or if he swings that way, or if any of this is actually going to work out. And thinking about it, walking through an apartment filled with too many people and too much noise, is making the blood rush through his body in terrible and unexpected ways. 

“How come you’ve never brought me to one of these before?” Mathias finally decides to ask. Stijn’s busy elbowing his way past people—Mathias spots Erzsébet with a silvery-haired guy from the band, and the Italian kid from his drafting course. 

Stijn barely spares him a glance. “I only come to these stupid things for business,” he says shortly, but he looks away too quickly, and Mathias spots the twin spots of heat on his cheeks. 

“Wait a minute!” he crows. “Are you trying to get laid, too?” 

He must speak too loudly, because all at once he’s the focus of a dozen pairs of eyes and disparaging glances. He laughs it off, tugs at his collar. Stijn elbows him in the chest. 

“Shut up, idiot,” he says, smoothly. “I’m not the one who’s been a monk with only Legos for company.” 

“They’re models!” Mathias protests, even though he is also very fond of Legos. “And they’re for class!” 

“That doesn’t make it sound better.” A moment later, Stijn passes Mathias a chilled beer and opens one for himself. The two of them stand against the wall in what little space they can find, sipping at their drinks. Then: “D’you see him?” 

Mathias scans the room, bites down on his lower lip as he tries to make out more faces. Most of the partygoers must be people they go to school with—many of them wave or lift their drinks to acknowledge Stijn, at least. Mathias hadn’t realized his roommate was so popular—and the guy barely talks! Maybe Mathias does need to stop spending so much time in the library. If Stijn can be popular, surely Mathias can, too. 

But then—it’s the siblings, from earlier, the boy with red-tipped hair and the girl dressed in pink lace and black leather. Mathias follows them with his gaze, sees the silver-haired boy again. He’s draped over a couch, legs laid out with his feet resting in someone’s lap. Someone who happens to be the most beautiful guy Mathias has ever seen.

“That’s him!” Mathias squeaks, forgetting that he’d just taken a sip of his drink. He ends up spitting half his beer all over the floor. 

Stijn looks up, follows Mathias’ line of sight and then looks at the group appraisingly. 

“Oh, he knows Xue and her brother,” Stijn says. How the hell does he know _everyone_?

“Yeah?” Mathias says. “Should I—what should I do? Go over there? Wait for him to come here? You could go talk to him!” 

Stijn looks at Mathias with stressed patience. “I’m not the one who wants to get in his pants,” he says. “Go grab another drink, take it over. Try and be charming and don’t let him know what a fucking nerd you are.” 

It’s more words than Stijn ever strings together, at once. Mathias grins and grabs another beer, emboldened. 

“Sure thing. See you later.” 

 

v.

“Hi. Want a beer?” Mathias holds up the bottle hopefully, unnerved by the fact that both his hands are full and he can’t reach up to fix his hair. 

The guy in front of him looks up after a deliberate moment. He blinks, takes in Mathias and the drink in his hand, grabs the beer and turns away again before he actually responds.

“That trick words better when we’re actually at the pub. When you have to pay for it.” His voice is soft and almost inflectionless, except for a distinctly superior tone running through it. It is, quite frankly, the hottest thing Mathias has ever heard. 

“I didn’t see you at the pub,” Mathias says, powering through with his endless stores of optimism. And anyway, it’s the truth. He’d looked. 

“Hm.” The guy sniffs, takes a sip of his beer and looks bored out of his mind. 

“Did you like the music?” Mathias asks, browsing through talking points in his head like flashcards, searching for something relevant. 

The guy shrugs. “It’s always the same. Arthur screams more than he sings.”

Mathias had thought that was the point, almost. But then again, he doesn’t know very much about music. “Ah. You guys are good friends, then?” 

Another shrug. The silence stretches. 

“I’m Mathias, by the way. It’s nice to meet you?” 

“Is it,” the guy says. 

“Well, it might be. You know, if you actually looked at me, or talked to me?” Maybe it’s the beer making him bold, or maybe he really just wants a better look at his companion’s face. Either way, Mathias surges forward. “Who else are you going to talk to, anyway? I don’t see your posse around.” 

“Posse,” the guy repeats, after a moment. 

“Yeah, you know—those guys you were with, earlier.” And the kid who had his feet in your lap. 

He rolls his eyes. “Idiot. That’s my little brother, and his friends. They’re hardly my anything.” 

“Oh,” Mathias says, inordinately pleased to have plied any information out of him. “That’s nice of you, to hang out with your little brother.” His own childhood in Copenhagen had been happy enough, but a bit lonely—his parents older, he their only child. 

His companion waves a hand. “He likes the music,” he says dismissively. “That doesn’t mean he needs to get caught up in the rest of it.” 

This doesn’t really compute to Mathias, who sees the object of his affections as entirely integrated with their current scene—the dark liner around his bright eyes, the fit of his pants and the languid spread of his limbs, even his aloof demeanor. Surely, _he_ has gotten caught up in it all? 

But he doesn’t have a chance to ask, because a moment later the silver-haired brother is back. 

“Lukas,” he says, voice as placid as his brother’s, “I’m bored. Let’s go.” 

The guy—Lukas!—rises to his feet without another glance or word to Mathias. He nods, heads for the door with his brother in tow. Mathias watches, for a moment, before he rallies his courage.

“Hey!” he calls out. “Hey, _Lukas_! I’ll see you around.” 

Lukas turns back, shakes his head and lifts a brow. Mathias just beams. 

A name, a conversation. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone attends NYU because it's close to the UN Headquarters. Mathias is Denmark, Stijn is Netherlands, Lukas is Norway. The other members of Norway's "posse" are England, Iceland, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Seychelles. 
> 
> Catch updates/AU-building at my tumblr, @watergeuzen


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mathias is unconsciously charming, Stijn is deliberately awful, and everything could be solved through more caffeine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on this one! One of the scenes was mucking everything else up, unfortunately. But I've got most of the rest of this written out already, so hopefully updates will be much quicker from now on. Thanks for all the comments and encouragement, too. I really appreciate it.
> 
> And as an actual note, there are mentions of Spain/Netherlands in this chapter that I'm not tagging because it's neither endgame nor the focus of this fic or even this chapter.

vi. 

The next morning finds Mathias in an overwhelmingly good mood, whistling to himself as he pulls a t-shirt over his head and heads into the kitchen. He’s halfway through a Carl Nielson symphony when he realizes he isn’t quite alone.

Standing by the stove is a barely-dressed man, a loose pair of jeans riding low on his hips. He’s got a spatula in one hand as he uses the other to wildly punctuate his speech. He stops mid-sentence, his bright green eyes meeting Mathias’ as they spot one another at the same moment. 

“Oh, hello,” the intruder says, as though this is his kitchen and not Mathias’, “Good morning!”

The grin is instinctive, as is the muffled “morning,” that Mathias offers back. He glances around, and sure enough there’s Stijn sitting at the table—already fully dressed, his shirt starched and his hair perfectly styled. He looks up, gives Mathias a quirked eyebrow’s acknowledgement, and then goes on reading the paper. ( _The Wall Street Journal_ , too, since he’s a pretentious asshole who’s too good for reading BuzzFeed on his phone like the rest of the world.)

So Mathias turns back to his guest. “You a friend of Stijn’s, then?”

The guy laughs, flipping an omelet over. “Mm, something like that. Isn’t that right, Constantijn?” 

The last person to call Stijn by his full name was quickly and unsubtly strangled by a distinctive blue and white scarf. But this time, Mathias’ roommate merely huffs and takes a pointed sip of his coffee. 

So Mathias laughs, too, and extends a hand. “I like you,” he decides, as he and the other shake hands. “Nice to meet you.”

The guy’s got a firm handshake but relaxed posture, a sunny smile and dark, curling hair. “I’m Antonio,” he says. “How do you like your eggs?”

Antonio, as it turns out, is a phenomenal chef and excellent company. He prepares tortilla for the three of them, and Mathias learns that the word doesn’t just refer to the wrappers of burritos. Stijn eats his meal with quick, silent efficiency, but Antonio and Mathias dig into potatoes, egg, cheese and vegetables with gusto as they talk.

“So, you and Stijn, huh?” Mathias asks, ignoring the way Stijn kicks his leg under the table. “How’d you meet?”

“Friends of friends,” Antonio says, leaning over to press a kiss against Stijn’s cheek. It’s the third time he’s done so, and Mathias is beginning to wonder if he’s doing it specifically to piss Stijn off—because, if so, it’s certainly working. 

“Friends of enemies, more like,” Stijn mutters, defiantly flipping through the _Journal_. 

“Oh?” Mathias asks. “That sounds like a story.”

“It’s not,” Stijn mumbles, at the same that Antonio says, “It is!” 

Stijn finally puts down his paper. “The long and short of it is that we don’t let Bonnefoy and Arthur be in the same room, anymore.” 

Antonio’s laughing, again, but try as he might Mathias can’t get the rest of the story out of them. He gets up from the table, grabbing the others’ plates as he goes. He’s busying himself with scrubbing them down when he sees Antonio lean towards Stijn again out of the corner of his eye. 

“Come on, querido,” he says, wheedling. “Spend the day with me.”

Stijn barely looks up. “No,” he says firmly. And then, as if surprised, “Why are you still here?”

Mathias shakes his head and finishes up the dishes. He has more important things to worry about that Stijn’s carefully crafted veneer of assholeishness. 

 

vii.

Their first meeting had occurred over a year ago, at a school mixer. The intent had been to have the international students get to know the Americans, to better integrate them into the university experience. In reality, all those students marked by their accents ended up hugging the walls, grouped by continent and region subconsciously. 

Mathias, however, had decided to break the mold. He flitted from person to person, introducing himself and telling jokes. (A few of his puns were sacrificed on the altar of translation, but all in all he thought he did well.)

But when a third student said, “Oh, so you’re Dutch?” Mathias had to seriously question every American’s ability to keep their demonyms straight. 

“No, no,” he explained. “ _Danish_.”

“Ah,” the kid had said. “Like the pastry. I could’ve sworn someone said Dutch, though.”

Mathias didn’t make many lasting friendships, that night. But as the mixer drew to a close and he leaned against the wall, tired out, a tall and irate-looking guy had approached him. 

“You,” the guy’d said, lips pulling thin in a scowl, “are that damned Dane everyone keeps mistaking me for.”

Mathias smirked at him. “And I guess that makes you the Dutch guy. Good to know you’re not a figment of everyone’s imagination.”

They ended up sharing a calculus course that term, and more than a few bottles of beer between them as the weeks rolled by. Stijn was, and still is, stern and slightly neurotic most of the time and relaxed to the point of insanity at others. Mathias was eager and friendly, took up ninety percent of their shared talking time and dragged Stijn out to a different romcom every Tuesday night when they were both free. 

Most people thought they had less in common, rather than more. But despite outward personas, Mathias thought of Stijn as a kindred spirit. When the time came to decide living arrangements for his second year and Stijn offered a place in his ritzy apartment, Mathias never thought twice. 

 

viii.

Mathias is thinking twice a week later when Stijn has, once again, drunken the last of the coffee. They have a joint pot for groceries, and alternate buying them every week. But somehow or other there’s never enough coffee, and somehow or other Stijn always manages to steal the last pot for himself. So Mathias, who has an exam at ten am, is braving the 8:30 Starbucks rush.

The small on-campus premises is packed with students, faculty, and high school tour groups. Mathias sighs, grabs a spot in line, and watches the time wind down on his wristwatch as the crowd moves at slow, almost indiscernible intervals. 

He’s going half-mad, timing the minutes to the Taylor Swift song he can barely hear through another person’s headphones, when the door opens yet again and another customer shuffles inside. Only, this time Mathias turns his head to see who it is. Only, this time it’s Lukas. 

There’s an ominous cloud hanging over Lukas’ head, evident in the way he glares at anyone who gets too close to him and mercilessly elbows all who don’t take the first hint. His hands are tucked away in his pockets and his thin eyebrows are narrowed ferociously, and Mathias can’t help but thing _even angry, he’s beautiful_. It’s a weird thing to think, surely, but Mathias has never been very typical.

Or subtle. “Hey!” he calls out, voice ringing through the crowded space. “Hey, Lukas! Over here!” 

At first Mathias thinks he hasn’t heard him; they he thinks Lukas is ignoring him on purpose. But, finally, the third time he calls out, the other looks up and turns that icy glare on him. Mathias waves, seemingly oblivious, and gestures to the (lack of) space beside him. 

The miracle is this: after a moment, Lukas mutters under his breath and squeezes through the crowd, coming to stand just beside Mathias. 

“Hey!” Mathias says again, inordinately pleased. “I didn’t think you saw me.”

Lukas is pushed up against his side by the shifting crowd, and huffs in irritation. His hair’s different today—three small, intricate braids wound into it on the left side, revealing the pale skin of his scalp and fastened behind his ear with that same silver hairclip. There’s deep blue liner around his eyes, making his irises seem almost indigo. 

“Even if I hadn’t,” he murmurs slowly, bored, “you’d be impossible not to _hear_.”

Mathias has no issue laughing at himself. “Yeah, I guess not,” he says, scratching the back of his head. 

He isn’t sure how he can tell, but Mathias thinks something’s off about Lukas. His hands are clenched tight in his pockets, his brow furrowed every few moments before it evens out to his typical placidity. Mathias leans in, concerned, to murmur, “Hey, are you alright—”

“What the fuck are you doing?” a shrill voice screeches from just behind them.

Mathias turns around, hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Nothing, nothing,” he starts saying, but he doesn’t get a chance to continue. 

“There are about six hundred people in here,” the lanky kid now in front of him yells. “And you’re letting people cut in line? What the hell is wrong with you?” He’s red-faced and screaming, hazel eyes fiery and wild. A single stubborn curl juts out from his head, bobbing as he continues to berate Mathias with wild hand gestures. “Don’t you have any _decency_?”

“Uh,” Mathias says, thinking this is big talk from the kid who was listening to Taylor Swift five minutes ago. But he’s saved from having to come up with a retort by Lukas pushing his way forward. That icy glare cuts through the kid as Lukas lifts his chin and looks right through him.

“If we wanted your permission, or your opinion, we would have asked for it,” he says, in a voice so calm it’s terrifying. 

The kid opens his mouth to retort, but is cut off by the barista’s sharp voice. 

“Hey!” he hollers, voice echoing. “If ya can’t stop making a scene, I’ll throw ya all out. And shut up, Lovino, I don’t need a noise complaint again!” 

Mathias takes a deep breath—it’s Sadık at the register, so he could ostensibly pick up all three of them and throw them out. He glances back at the kid—Lovino?—and then at Lukas. 

“You know what? You stay here and get your coffee. I’ll get out of line.”

“What,” Lukas starts to say, but Mathias is already moving. When he’s near the door, he turns back to wave.

“You look like you need it more than I do!” he says. “See you later, Lukas!” 

 

ix. 

“Oh, very smooth,” Erzsébet says approvingly, as she and Mathias head across campus. They haven’t had any courses together since first year—Gender and Sexuality Studies doesn’t cross over much with Mathias’ course load—but they have lunch every Friday. Today Erzsébet’s style is leaning more towards the feminine—her hair loose and curling over her shoulders, her emerald-green dress paired with a faun-colored sweater and matching booties. 

“Smooth?” Mathias asks, genuinely puzzled. “What—no, I wasn’t trying anything! I had an exam in fifteen minutes, I wasn’t going to make it through the line, anyways.” 

“Mm-hmm.” Erzsébet has always been too knowing, too _wise_ , for her own good. She stands up on tip-toe to ruffle Mathias’ hair. “Well, whether he ends up being into you or not, I think this is good for you. You’re too insular, sometimes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mathias squawks. “I have tons of friends! _Tons_.”

“Of course you do,” Erzsébet says indulgently. “And that’s why the first time I’ve ever seen you at a party was last week.” 

“I’ve been busy!” Mathias protests, although Erzsébet knows everything and is absolutely correct. “And if I don’t ace Professor Beilshmidt’s course, there’s no way he’s letting me into his advanced seminar next term. You know that!” 

Erzsébet punches him lovingly in the shoulder and shakes her head. “I know, I know. But it was nice. You should come out more often. Spend some time with your new friend.” 

Mathias flashes her a grin, but as he turns his head he catches sight of someone out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly, Erzsébet can’t hold his attention. 

“Listen,” he says regretfully, “I think I’ve gotta go—”

She glances over his shoulder and chuckles. “Say no more,” she says, giving him a glancing kiss on the cheek. “See you next week, lover boy.” 

 

x. 

Sure enough, when Mathias gets closer, his suspicious are confirmed—there’s Lukas, balancing what looks to be a stack of papers taller than he is, running swiftly down the paved pathway. He’s got a muffin cap on top of his hair, today, and the flared edges of his leather jacket blow in the wind as Mathias jogs to catch up to him. 

“We have to stop meeting like this—” Mathias is trying to be smooth this time, really. But what ends up happening is that Lukas half-turns toward the sound of his voice, trips on a break in the sidewalk, and falls forward as Mathias watches with wide eyes. 

Fortunately, his reflexes are excellent. Mathias reaches out and grabs Lukas around the waist, saving him from crashing face-first into the pavement. _Un_ fortunately, the papers don’t get the same consideration, and within moments they are scattered around the two of them, in danger of being blown away entirely. 

“What are you _doing_ ,” Lukas hisses, wrenching himself out of Mathias’ grip. Immediately, he scrambles after the papers, his movements frenzied and agitated in a way that Mathias finds fascinating. (It’s something, after all, other than boredom or aloofness. And maybe it’s not a nice emotion, but it’s an emotion all the same.)

“Sorry,” Mathias says, remembering himself. He stoops down to help, stacking papers and catching a few of the further ones before they end up in the street. “Sorry, sorry! I just wanted to say hi.” 

“Well, don’t!” Lukas snaps at him, grabbing the papers out of Mathias’ hand. Mathias only has time to read one word on the first page: CONFIDENTIAL. 

Mathias takes a step back, still collecting loose sheets as his smile tightens, just a bit. “Fine,” he says easily. “I won’t, next time.” He watches as Lukas arranges his things in the same order they were in before—a cardboard sheet, first, then closed paper boxes from Kinko’s, and finally the loose sheets. They look more precarious than ever. 

“Are you sure you don’t want some help with that?” Mathias asks. 

Lukas looks up at him, brows knitting together before his face evens out again. “I don’t understand you,” he says, like he’s honestly confused. 

Mathias laughs. “What’s there to understand?” he asks. He reaches for Lukas’ things, grabbing exactly half of the pile. “C’mon, where are you headed? I’ll walk you there, and then leave you alone forever.” 

Lukas looks to be considering it. He glares at the papers in Mathais’ hands, and then rolls his eyes in disgust. He turns abruptly on his heel and heads off. Since he’s still holding half of the papers, Mathias assumes he’s meant to follow. 

 

xi.

It’s a swanky office building three blocks down, just off the southern edge of campus. As they enter the lobby, Lukas turns, finally breaking the silence he’d enforced mercilessly for the past five minutes. 

He reaches for the papers in Mathias’ hands, which he hands over without complaint. After taking a moment to rearrange himself, Lukas lets out a short breath.

“Thank you,” he says, though it doesn’t sound particularly sincere. “Now, what do you want?”

Now it’s Mathias’ turn to be confused. “Want? I mean, there’s lots of stuff. It’d be awesome if my roommate stopped drinking all the coffee, and if my project is selected for exhibition next term, and maybe my parents’ll fly me home for Thanksgiving—”

“No, shut up,” Lukas says. “What do you want from _me_?” 

“Uh. Nothing, really?” _I want to get to know you_ , he thinks. _I want to tell you that you’re really beautiful, and I wish I’d stuck around and let you tear into that Lovino kid the other day, and maybe one day you’ll actually have a drink with me. But if that’s not what you want, that’s okay, too._

“Then why this?” Lukas demands, gesturing at the stack of papers. 

“You looked like you needed help,” Mathias says simply. And then, because it’s the honest answer, he continues, “I would’ve done the same for anyone else.”

Lukas pauses for a moment, then shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. “Now get out of here.”

Mathias frowns. “You sure? I can take you up to whatever office—”

“Dressed like that?” Lukas says pointedly. “I don’t think so.” And then he’s turning and walking towards the elevators, giving Mathias’ only a moment to glance down at himself.

 _Oh_.

“Architects Do It With Models,” his t-shirt reads beneath a burgundy-colored cardigan. He laughs to himself, before cupping his hands over his mouth and calling out across the lobby, “It’s not my fault! It was a birthday present, and my roommate’s a dick!” 

He swears he sees Lukas shake his head, just a bit. But in the next moment he’s being pointed back to the entrance by the doorman, and he loses sight of Lukas.

It’s only once he’s home, later on, that he realizes he’s not going to get at least one of his wishes this year. He won’t be flying home to Copenhagen for his short break. 

“Fuck,” he yells, as Stijn calls from the other room for him to _shut the hell up, already_. But Mathias will not shut up. He reads his email over and over again, hoping that the words will rearrange themselves and the stark truth will fade into something more welcome. It doesn’t.

Berwald is coming to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's majors are taken from programs actually offered at NYU. So far we have:
> 
> Mathias | Urban Design and Architecture Studies  
> Stijn | Economics and Mathematics, with a Literature in Translation minor  
> Arthur | Medieval and Renaissance Studies  
> Antonio | Spanish and Linguistics  
> Erzsébet | Gender and Sexuality Studies
> 
> And Lukas... we'll see about him. Also, unless explicitly stated, non of the characters are blood relations like they may be in canon. 
> 
> Professor Beilschmidt is Germania.


End file.
